Gallery

Party Animal

“Okay,” Peyton said, biting her lip, “dare.”

Two of her friends glanced at each other; the third took a swig from the filched bottle of sickly-sweet coconut rum. “You going to get it out or not?”

Peyton looked back and forth, a little giddy from her own pass at the rum, from nerves and excitement and flirty energy. “Get WHAT out?” she teased. “I’m not going down on anyone for a dare, you guys–”

The friend she had a crush on held up one hand. There was a black rubber collar in it, with a little blinking box attached.

“Dare you to try it on.”

“Oh my god,” Peyton laughed. “Is that one of those things your dad uses to train dogs? You are such a perv!”

“Dare stands,” said her friend, head cocked. “I mean, unless you’re going to puss out.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, I bet it doesn’t even work. Or doesn’t hurt if it does.” She tried putting it around her neck, then had to hold her hair out of the way while someone else helped get the buckle done. There was a satisfying little click when it worked, and then she could feel the light pressure against the sides and back of her neck, cold little nubs of metal warming to her skin. “Tada!” she said. “Okay, my turn, right? UmmOW!”

Her friends were staring at her, a little startled. “Holy shit,” said one of them, “it works.”

“YEAH it fucking works!” a little laugh came bursting out of her, significantly more nervous than it had been before, though the excitement was oddly lingering. “Jesus! I am so making one of you try this on next.” She tugged at it, trying to find the complicated buckle, but as soon as only one of the metal contacts was touching her, the second delivered a warning buzz that made her almost lose feeling in both hands. “Ahh! Shit!”

“You can’t take it off once it’s on unless the remote is unlocked,” said the other friend she had a crush on. “I read in the manual.”

“You read in the–” Peyton stared. “Um, did you guys like, plan this?”

“Truth or dare, Peyton,” was the only answer she got.

“It’s my turn! I get to” SNAP. She yelped again, clenching her fists, drawing her knees up in a protective curl that of course would not protect her. But still the helpless giggle came bursting out of her, even though part of her was starting to think this was very, very bad. “FUCK! Okay, okay, truth!”

The friend she had a crush on–the pretty one, with dark eyes and long lashes, and sun freckles on that bitten lip–said “You really have to put a better password on your laptop.”

Peyton’s heart jerked sideways. “My what?”

“Truth. Peyton. Do you like to watch videos of girls getting hurt?”

She was caught, breath coming fast for so many complicated reasons. “I don’t–why were you–that’s NOT cool to–”

A warning thumb rested on the remote button.

She was so fucking embarrassed. “Okay! Yes! I mean. Sometimes.” She took a deep breath. “Can I have some more rum now?”

“Yeah,” said her third friend, the one she’d sometimes been a little scared of, the one who had been in her dream last week. “But you gotta come over here and sit between us first.”

She stood, unsteadily. Two steps across the room, the next shock came, and dropped her to her knees.

“Oh my god,” she was panting, still laughing a little, on the verge of hiccups. “Oh fuck.”

One of them stood up, leaned down, and took her collar in two fingers. Peyton found herself stumbling forward on her hands and knees, being led like a reluctant puppy, and feeling–weirdly–comforted when that warm hand brushed her neck.

They put her in the middle of the couch, sprawling kind of sideways, one of them pulling her hips back so that her legs fell a little open while the other kept that grip on her collar and pulled her head in close to rest. “Truth or dare.”

“Truth again,” said Peyton, as they lifted the bottle to her lips and let her drink.

“Truth. Are you turned on right now?”

She bit her lip, met her crush-friend’s eyes, wouldn’t answer. SNAP.

This time, when the shock came, she let her hips roll and her back arch a little, and the noise that came out of her was some kind of gigglegaspmoan.

There was a hand on her thigh, then a hand at the top of her leg. There was a hand working its way up her shorts. Peyton closed her eyes and bit her lip and let it ride the soft, fuzzy skin to the dip where the tendon of her leg stood out against the swell of herself, then edge cautiously underneath the edge of her underwear.

“Rules clarification,” said someone. “If she tells the truth but doesn’t use her mouth, does that mean she’s cheating?”

“It means I win,” she said, grinning, and braced herself to get what she deserved.

Gallery

This is kind of unusual and personal for me, but this is also the only identity where I really talk about kink, so. Pardon the digression.

I’m a pretty typical top in bed. I like control, I like getting a reaction, I like the illusion of power; aside from a couple very specific circumstances, I don’t have much of a submissive side, and I have always struggled to understand why anyone would want to receive pain as part of sex. I sort of got it abstractly: endorphins, adrenaline, heightened pleasure from sensory contrast. Not to imply the two are always connected, but I’ve dabbled lightly in self-harm in the past, so I know a little about the relief involved in externalization too. But emotionally… I couldn’t get there. I just figured I could respect other people’s kinks without needing to understand them, and hey, if my mild sadistic interests matched up with someone else’s masochism, great.

Until this weekend.

You and I are very close friends but we live a long way apart. This was one of the few times a year we get to see each other, and the flirting had turned up quite a bit, and when you drink you get tend to sock me in the arm and get a little bite-happy. This time you gave me one serious, deliberate punch, and then you bit me in the same spot. Hard. Hard enough to leave marks.

I laughed about it, but it made my heart kick. I wanted more.

It became a game. We’d be in a crowd, or at the bar, or just around the corner from a group of friends, and we’d catch each other’s eyes and you’d pinch me. Or punch me. Or, once in a while, find a soft place and bite down. The first time I was just excited to have your attention, but soon the harder you bit the better it felt. I got cold chills and goosebumps all over.

I have quite a bit of height on you, and you are sweet and kind, so we do not present the most obvious form for this dynamic. That’s part of my fascination with it. I never expected to be walking around with my public face on, cheerfully looming over you, thrumming with excitement inside and thinking fuck, I hope she hurts me again soon.

I’m not claiming this is the universal masochist experience or anything, but I get it now. I don’t bruise easily, and the marks on your favorite spot–just below the shoulder of my right arm–are already gone. But I can still feel the soreness when I push it. I want it to last. I want to be able to touch part of my body, and remember, and feel where you were.